


Sexual Gratification

by ellamequiere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamequiere/pseuds/ellamequiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  England and France have had a long time to experiment with each other in bed; America and Canada are a little concerned with what they've come up with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

And there was the _third_ casualty of this encounter, thought Arthur, in time with the smooth crackle of seems stretched too far.  There were plenty of other, more effective things to tie his wrists with.  There was no reason to have chosen his favorite shirt.  “You couldn’t have used something that _wouldn’t_ rip,” he complained.  
   
“It won’t rip if you don’t struggle,” the stupid twat whispered, _silkily_.  
   
“You have _already_ ripped it,” Arthur corrected.  “You have also _already_ taken my belt.  You couldn’t have used that, of course, it wouldn’t have been damaged.”  
   
“I have other plans for _that_ , my whiny little friend.”  
   
That sounded promising enough. Arthur was still raising a speculate eyebrow when the belt hit him with a _thwack_ in the center of the chest.  
   
You’d think the stupid bastard would have more respect for clothing, Arthur thought, panting delicately and spreading his legs wider.  Perhaps it was simply Arthur’s clothing that didn’t deserve the attention.  Yes, pondering Francis’ amused little grin, Arthur was more and more convinced that this was the case.  God forbid _Arthur_ ruin a shirt of _Francis’_.  There’d be no _time_ for sex between all the whining.  “Harder, dammit,” he hissed, tilting his head back to keep from getting hit in the face.  He’d _liked_ that shirt.  He ought to start sending a bill.  
   
The other man shrugged. “As you like.”  
   
Arthur closed his eyes and waiting for the impact. It didn't come. “God _dammit_ , Franci--” Ahh. Ah, there it was. He let out a breath, the sting just starting to set in. God. “Again!"  
   
“Bossy, bossy,” tutted the other man, in the amused, patronizing voice that invariably made Arthur want to strangle him. With his wrists tied, of course, he wasn’t obligated to do so; luckily, since if he had, he’d have to follow up on the gesture, and he _just_ wasn’t in the mood.  Sometimes all you really need is a good…  He was still uncomfortable with the end of that thought, so he simply didn’t think it.  
   
He was rewarded for his tolerance when the belt hit him with another solid smack. He exhaled, shakily. “You’re alright?” The voice was solicitous, and infuriating.  
   
“If you ask me that again, I shall sever your dick and sodomize you with it.”  
   
Francis laughed. “I do not think that would work, friend.”  
   
Arthur opened his eyes, and stared. “Francis! I am going to murder you! Are you going to beat me, or stand there making conversation?”  
   
The man shrugged eloquently, raising the hand with Arthur's belt, and aiming another hard strike at the center of his chest. Arthur barely had time to mourn the equipment that he had _not_ brought with him to the conference—they would be concentrating on policy-making, it was hardly the time for such things, he’d thought; he really should have known better by now—before the belt was coming down again, and again. Soon he was breathing hard, small sounds escaping him with every hit, and the warm, disconnected feeling was starting in his chest, and—was that the _door?_  
   
“ _What the fuck?_ ”  
   
Arthur and Francis startled, and looked up as one. Arthur had one moment of shock and disbelief, and then closed his eyes in resignation. Of course.  _Nothing_ with those two had worked out properly since 1776.    
   
“Alfred, my dear,” came the oily voice.  “Isn’t it customary to knock?”  Then the tirade began, and Arthur could only close his eyes and wait.  
   
It would look... Well.  He hadn't looked in the mirror, the scratches down his front would be scabbing, and then there were the welts from the belt. Bruising, from yesterday-- they didn't _always_ fuck all week long at conferences, but this week wasn't one of the exceptions-- and not a few teeth marks. All under the shirt, of course, although now that the children had made their appearance, he doubted there was anyone in the G8 who would really be scandalized.     
   
All of these thoughts entered and left his mind in the time it took Alfred to charge through the door and pin Francis against the wall by the throat, shouting and carrying on like the world was ending, nearly shaking in anger. He opened his eyes, finally, supposing that there was nothing to be done but try and deal with the situation. He glanced at Matthew briefly, but the boy looked just as stunned and hurt as his brother (Arthur believed that the human terminology came from Alfred; the boy could be stubborn about imposing human standards of intimacy on his relationships with other countries. He remembered when he'd asked if he could call him “Papa,” and shuddered).  
   
Well. He supposed there was nothing to be done for it.  
   
“Alfred,” he said, closing his eyes.  “Alfred!” he said again, louder. Finally, the deluge stopped long enough for him to get a few words in. “There is no problem here.”  
   
“England! What do you mean, there's no problem? You look like—You look—“  
   
Arthur gritted his teeth.  “I know _perfectly_ well what I look like, and thank you very much for bringing it to my attention.  Francis, if you please...?”  He tugged at his wrists meaningfully.  
   
“Of course,” said the man, and tried to pull away from Alfred, but the boy tightened his grip.  
   
“You're not going near him, you son of a bitch!”  
   
“Very well, then,” said Arthur, with resignation, and not a bit of testiness. “Matthew, if you would be so kind as to undo my wrists?” As the other boy crept to obey, Arthur sighed, and steeled himself for what was undoubtedly to be a _deeply_ unpleasant conversation. “Alfred. I don’t _suppose_ you could be convinced to let this drop.”  He opened his mouth to reply, but Arthur took one look at his face, and cut him off.  He _knew_ that expression.  He had become intimately familiar with it in the years since the Second World War.  It said, _I am going to help you, whether you like it or not_ , and he found himself thinking with longing of the boy’s days of isolationism.  “No, I suppose you couldn’t.  Well.”  And he sighed again, rubbing feeling back into his stinging wrists.  
   
Alfred, the yappy little brat, took advantage of the pause. “England! You-- you can't let him do shit like this to you! I mean, I know you're not as powerful as you used to be--” Arthur twitched, “--but this is so totally not the way to work with that, you know? You could, uh, maybe see a therapist, or--”  
   
“— _Alfred,_ ” interrupted Arthur, loudly, so as to be heard over the boy’s continued yattering and the snickers from his dear old enemy.  “I am aware that in _your_ part of the world, ‘French kissing’ is still considered a dangerous deviation, but in _Europe_ we are a little more _advanced._ Now, would you _please_ get out of my hotel room?”  
   
He’d thought that was a rather convincing argument, but Alfred’s expression simply hardened.  “I dunno what shit you’re saying about kissing, but this is fucked up!  England, he was _hitting_ you, _really_ hard, and you’re all bleeding and shit, and…” Was the child going to cry?  Good Lord, deliver him from unduly emotional well-meaning _fools_ who interrupted his evenings with their puritanical ramblings.  He shot a look of appeal at Francis, who—still pinned to the wall by the throat—shrugged.  The message was clear.  Bastard.  Matthew, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.  
   
“ _—Alfred_ ,” he repeated.  “This sort of activity is part of an arrangement between Francis and myself that goes back _far_ before you started barging into other’s private residences and trying to rearrange their bedroom habits.  Now I must _ask you—“_  
   
The boy interrupted again, and yes, his eyes did look disconcertingly wet.  “Just because you’ve done it for a long time doesn’t mean that—“  
   
 “I _requested_ that Francis beat me this evening,” said England, loudly, “because I find it _sexually gratifying_. Is that clear enough for you?”  
   
Alfred gaped, letting go of Francis—who, Arthur observed with pleasure, was rubbing his neck in obvious discomfort—more out of surprise than premeditation. Matthew, sensible lad, tugged on the other boy's sleeve. “I think we should go, Al--”  
   
But Francis, having gotten his breath back, shook his head. “No, children. Sit.”  
   
Arthur stared at him in disbelief. “You've gotta be shitting me.” Then he mentally cursed. Some of his less refined dialects tended to come out at moments like these.  “You truly intend to have a _discussion_ about this?  There’s nothing to discuss!  Get them _out_ of here, and we can…”  
   
“No, Arthur,” said Francis, and he didn’t even smirk. “We shall not simply pretend this didn’t happen.” Arthur sighed. That was _exactly_ what he would have done. “I will not allow them to leave thinking what they think right now.”  And the fool looked so serious that Arthur had no choice but to look away.  “Boys, sit down.” The two of them, still looking a little shell-shocked, sat down in tandem on the second couch. It was always dangerously cute when they did things like that.  Francis-- the traitor-- sat down across from them, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It was his serious conversation pose.  
   
Realizing this with trepidation, and steeling himself, Arthur unrolled his shirt and struggled it on, hands still trembling a little as he tried to do up the buttons.  He didn’t even bother to mentally gripe.  
   
“The giving and receiving of pain,” began Francis, “is a non-mainstream sexual practice.” Good Lord.  He intended to make this into some sort of sexual education course.  Arthur shot him a glare, which, he ignored.    
   
Naturally, Alfred interrupted.  “What, like… with leather and chains and shit?  Some of my children are into that, but I always thought they were just fucked up or something…”  
   
Francis, looking bemused, said “Well, yes, I suppose leather and chains can be involved, but they are hardly the end of the story.  And, while there has been much debate about this sort of sexuality over the past century or so--” of course, thought Arthur bitterly, of course Francis would keep up with the state of sex-related scholarship, “—people like _us_ have always had a, ah, more _relaxed_ approach.”  
   
Arthur wasn’t entirely comfortable with that statement—he rather thought Francis was talking about _himself—_ but the last thing he wanted to do was to draw the attention of the little terror, so he stayed quiet.  Alfred’s face was turning an unattractive red, like someone with a terrible sunburn, and Matthew was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.  Only Francis appeared composed, as he began to unbutton his shirt.  “As you can see,” he continued, lowering the shirt off his shoulders, and turning to display his back, “I also engage in this sort of loving.”  
   
Alfred gaped. “England did that to you?”  
   
Francis looked away evasively. “Yes, well, ah—“ Arthur had been meaning to ask him about that; where _had_ he gotten those? It hadn't been Veneziano or Alfred; to his knowledge Francis had never slept with Kiku, and Ludwig didn't engage in that end of this sort of thing anymore, “—yes, as I was saying, the giving of pain can be an expression of love, just like any sort of bedroom game.” Arthur coughed at the “L” word.  
   
Alfred, bewildered, turned to Arthur.  “So... you wanted him to do that to you?”  
   
Arthur put his face in his hands. “Yes, Alfred. As I informed you at the beginning of this conversation.”  
   
There was silence. “That's... that's kind of... weird, guys.”  
   
Francis shrugged. “We are weird fellows, dearest.”  
   
No one spoke. “Well,” said Arthur, hurriedly. “If that's all, then--”  
   
But Alfred interrupted him, the same stubborn look on his face that he'd had all those years ago when he started talking about mercantilism and taxation without representation. Arthur winced internally. That expression never meant anything good.  
   
“Do it to me.”  
   
“ _What_?” Arthur realized with annoyance that they had spoken in tandem.  
   
“Do it to me,” he repeated, stubbornly. “So I know you weren't hurting him.” All three of them stared at him. “Well, uh, hurting him in like-- a bad way?”  
   
Francis stared at him, mystified. “Alfred-- this is, ah, a sexual thing. Are you sure that's what you want?”  
   
The boy nodded, the mulish expression set on his face. Arthur sighed. “Lad, even if you do get comfortable enough with the sexual bit—have you even _had_ sex?”   
   
“Sure I have!”  Arthur couldn’t help feeling like the tone was slightly defensive.  
   
“Well.  As I was saying, even if you _do_ calm down enough about that bit, there's no guarantee that you'll feel the same way about the pain. It's-- well, in part, it can be an acquired taste, but more than that-- not everyone enjoys it at all.”  The effort it took to speak in a reasonable tone of voice, rather than simply cuffing the boy about the ears and sending him to his room, was astounding.  
   
But Alfred wasn't listening. He was looking at Francis, challenge in his face.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   England and France have had a long time to experiment with each other in bed; America and Canada are a little concerned with what they've come up with.

Oh, no. No, no.  He _wouldn’t_.  Surely he wouldn’t.   
   
“Very well. But if you do not like it, don't infer that we do not.”  
   
Of course he would.  If there was anything that he had learned in centuries of association with this man, it was that he would _never_ turn down sex.  Arthur had, at some point in the nineteenth century, begun to suspect that it was at least to some degree a calculated choice of battle ground rather than a simple acquiescence to the passions of the moment, but since the knowledge had always made him deeply uncomfortable, he chose to dwell on it as little as possible. As such, he took the opportunity to voice his own reservations.  “Francis, are you out of your fucking mind?”  
   
Francis ignored him. “Alfred,” he began. The boy looked suspicious. “There are many who do this sort of thing independently of love-making. I am not one of those people. Do you understand?” The look of suspicion deepened, but he nodded. “And you consent?”  
   
“Can we just get on with this?”  
   
“And you consent, Alfred?”  
   
“Francis, I really think—“  
   
“Yes, ok? Yes, I consent.” There was a pause. “I'm totally not letting you fuck me, though.” Arthur understood the sentiment, even if in reality he had not lived up to his own standards in this regard since the eleventh century. And what was he doing dwelling on _that_ memory, when everything about what was about to take place was ill-advised to the point of idiocy.  
   
Francis shrugged. “Very well. But, we will kiss.” Alfred looked less than thrilled. “We will kiss, or I will not do it.”  
   
“Alfred, this is really all quite unnecessary. Matthew, take your brother—“ he’d given up on arguing semantics with them centuries ago, “—and go play that strange game with the little balls in the box, or whatever it is you do on these evenings—“  
   
Alfred's eyebrows furrowed, and again, Arthur was ignored.  Cretins. “Who says I'm giving you a choice?”  
   
Matthew elbowed the other boy. “Al-- Al, I'm not sure we--”  
   
But Francis had stood. Arthur was reliably surprised how menacing he could look when he really tried; one moment, he would be the goofy fool, the next, looking as if his generals were about to overrun your capital. “America,” he said, and Alfred startled at the use of his formal name. “Your armies and economy mean nothing here. I will not be bullied. We will do this my way, or not at all.” The boy looked strangely cowed. Arthur huffed-- internally. “Now. You are sure you want to go through with this?”  
   
Alfred looked uncertain-- but he looked over at Arthur, and his expression cleared. “Yes.”  
   
Arthur said “Really, we could all just—“ but then Francis leaned in to kiss his col-- his ex-colony, and he felt a shock of heat, and a certain pounding—ah, his heart.  Sitting catty-corner to them, he could identify the moment Francis deepened their kiss— _French_ kissing, he thought to himself, and had to suppress what might have been a nervous giggle—by the way Alfred’s eyes popped open.  Watching the boy’s lower lip disappear briefly into Francis’ mouth, he realized with a certain degree of surprise that it was one of the hottest things he’d seen in his life.  A potent cocktail of shame and self-recrimination accompanied that thought, and he looked away, wondering—not for the first time—if it would be possible to simply excuse himself from his own hotel room and find someone else to stay with.  Perhaps Ludwig would be understanding.  
   
Something kept him from standing, and even later he wouldn’t be sure if it had been cowardice or bravery.   
   
The child was nervous, Arthur could tell by the way he fidgeted.  He didn’t have the look of one kissing Francis for the first time, a man who—faults aside—deserved certain elements of his reputation.  Alfred shot a quick glance at Matthew, who had characteristically said little thus far, but Francis turned his face gently back towards himself.  “We are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”  
   
Al shook his head, expression mulish. “No. We're doing it here.”  
   
Arthur sighed.  It would have been such an easy way out.  Francis shrugged, in that elegant, totally queer way, and slipped a hand behind the boy’s head, tilting it back for another kiss. Alfred cooperated with, Arthur could not help but feeling, reluctance, and jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb.  
   
Arthur-- Arthur was torn. He watched his oldest lover coaxing the boy to relax, watched him slowly start to kiss back, and-- the jealousy he felt was burning, but undirected.  The arousal, equally so.  He glanced over at Matthew, and was surprised to see that the boy had been looking at him, nervous, twisting his hands together. In the next moment, Arthur noticed the light flush on his cheeks, the way his body was angled carefully away from him. He wasn't quite sure what to do about that.  
   
Francis sat down on the couch, guiding Alfred after him; Arthur could see immediately what he was going for, but Al, flustered and nervous, clearly could not.  The poor buffoon stumbled, and Arthur would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so intent on pretending he wasn’t there.  It took several moments of awkward negotiation before Francis had positioned the other man, kneeling, legs on either side of his lap; Arthur was ready to cover his eyes in second-degree embarrassment. But then they were kissing again, slow and intense. Arthur knew that kind of kiss.  By the time he slid a hand under Alfred's shirt, the boy's hair was mussed, and Arthur could see from his profile that he was breathing quickly. He shook his head. Francis, that bastard.  
   
Then there was a quick movement, a scraping sound, a gasp.  Arthur processed a moment later that Francis had begun.  Fingernails, of course.  Well, it was at least traditional.  He looked away from the look that passed between the two of them—one shocked, the other impassive.  “You are sure?” he heard Francis ask.  
   
Alfred’s “Yeah” (the abominable slang) was shaky.  Arthur thought about interrupting, but wasn’t…  Well.  What on _earth_ would he have said?

\---  
   
Al didn't-- he didn't want this. He'd thought about it, he really had, kissing France-- he, uh, he might have jerked off to it once or twice, before he started fantasizing about dirtier stuff.  But not this way, not angry and scared and in front of an audience; he looked over at Matt, terrified that he'd see revulsion, but France turned his face gently back towards him.  “ _We_ are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”

Al shook his head. He didn't want to be alone with his old mentor right now. “No. We're doing it here.”

France shrugged, and put a hand on the back of his neck, tilting Al’s head up like a chick in a black-and-white movie. Fucking weird, man.  He jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb, and despite himself, Al began to relax. This was France they were talking about; he wouldn't really hurt any of them, would he? Then he remembered France in his military uniform at Fort Necessity, stained with blood and laughing.

Al barely noticed when France moved them to the couch, and except to kinda stumble (he’d forget about that part later).  There was another awkward moment, like that time that England had tried to teach him to waltz; he knew he was being cued to do something, but he wasn’t sure what it was.  He thought he detected a hint of exasperation in France’s face, and he was simply picked up and positioned, kneeling, legs on either side of France’s. He put his hands uncertainly on the older man's shoulders for balance, and then France was kissing him again.  Against his inclinations, he found himself closing his eyes, kissing back, responding to the firm hand on the back of his neck in a way he wasn’t, uh, totally comfortable with. He didn’t even jump when France’s hand slid under his shirt; he might’ve, uh, shuddered a little.

Al had almost, almost forgotten why they'd started this, when the gentle hand on his back turned to sharp fingernails, dragged up his spine. He gasped, mostly out of surprise, and met France's eyes. The man's face was expressionless. “You are sure?”

A low pounding had started in the pit of his stomach-- nerves, and maybe a little anticipation? “Yeah,” he said, trying to inject his voice with all the confidence he didn't feel.

“Very well,” said France, and the fingernails on his back turned cruel, leaving stinging trails behind them on their way up, gaining speed and pressure on their way down. Al gasped again, his grip on France's shoulders tightening, until he was sure it was going to bruise. If it hurt, France didn't show it-- he leaned in, and kissed a tender spot right above his collarbone; Al shivered. Then, instead of kissing, he was sucking, and Al's breathing was uncomfortably close to panting. By the time he felt the teeth in his neck, he was fighting the simultaneous urges to squirm closer and pull away. He cried out, and he heard an intake of breath from one of the men behind him.

“That's-- that doesn't feel bad,” he said to France.

“No,” the man responded.

“And that's what he was doing to you?” Al looked over his shoulder at England for confirmation.

England coughed. “The-- ah-- the premise is the same.”

Al's eyes narrowed, and he turned back to France. “You were hitting him. He was bleeding.”

France nodded, eyes serious. “Yes, he was.”

Al's expression became set. “Do it to me.”  
   
France shook his head. “I will hit you, Alfred, if you ask me to, but I will not make you bleed. Not the first time.”  
   
Al narrowed his eyes, but before he had a chance to reply, England spoke up. “You will not be able to convince him. He has that look.” And indeed, France's face was blank-- abnormal enough for him-- and serious.  
   
Al couldn't quite-- he didn't quite know what to do. “It's-- France? Do you like doing stuff like that to him? To, uh, to me?”  
   
France's expression stayed guarded. “Sometimes,” he said. “What my partner enjoys, I enjoy. There are moments when I enjoy this sort of thing for its own sake, but a true sadist, I am not.”  
   
Al struggled with that. “So,” he said, slowly, “so you were doing it because he wanted you to.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England put his face in his hands.  
   
“Yes,” said France, still with that unnervingly serious expression on his face.  
   
“And you weren't-- you weren't hurting him, in a bad way.”  
   
“No,” answered France, without a hint of humor or exasperation.  
   
Al thought. He turned to England. “So-- so the hitting, and the bleeding, that's-- that's what you like?”  
   
England's “not exclusively” was muffled by his hands.  
   
Al was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I guess he'd kick your ass if you were fucking with him.” France looked mildly offended by that, but said nothing.  
   
“Damn straight, I would,” said England, looking up. “Now. _Are we done talking about this yet?_ ”  
   
Al hesitated. “Um, France?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“Would you-- would you do it to me anyway? It's-- I want-- I mean,” he stuttered, not quite sure what he wanted to say; all he knew was that he couldn't just go home after this.  
   
“Al,” whispered Matt, “maybe they want to, you know, finish what they were doing--”  
   
But France interrupted him. “Yes, Alfred. If that is what you want.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***** Ahaha!  You didn’t think you’d get history notes during this fic, of all things, DID you.
> 
>  ***** Fort Necessity was where George Washington surrendered after the [Battle of Jumonville Glen](http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Battle_of_jumonville_glen&redirect=no) at the beginning of the French and Indian War.  According to [wiki](http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Battle_of_jumonville_glen&redirect=no), “The terms of Washington's surrender included a statement (written in French, a language Washington did not read) admitting that Jumonville [who was killed in the battle] was assassinated."
> 
>  ***** Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3.  Sexual Gratification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   England and France have had a long time to experiment with each other in bed; America and Canada are a little concerned with what they've come up with.  Kink and Talking About Feelings ensue.

Arthur stared at the man in disbelief.  That had been a _perfectly_ good opening, and Francis was just going to...?  He ground his teeth.  “Look, I don't know what your story is, Francis, if this is _pride,_ or pure _nymphomania...”_ The look Francis sent him was equal parts reproach, and... something close enough to vulnerability to take his breath away.  He let himself trail off.    
   
Alfred didn't bother to look his way.  “Should I-- um-- should I take off my shirt?”  The question... It sent a rush of blood to his face.  He nearly shook his head at himself.  After all these years, you'd think that little things like-- but it wasn't a little thing this time, was it?  This time, he wasn't watching the boy go swimming, or arm wrestle with his “brother.”   
   
“No,” said Francis, voice a little softer, a little kinder, than it had been.  “I will take it off for you.”  
   
The boy shifted awkwardly, still more-or-less sitting in Francis' lap. It looked like he wasn't quite sure what to do with his arms.  Francis didn't leave him in limbo; he tilted his face down for another kiss, guided his arms to rest around his neck.  It looked-- well.  It looked a thousand different kinds of sweet, and hot, and _right,_ and _wrong,_ and Arthur found he really had no idea how he felt.   
   
Matthew stepped forward, and Arthur blinked, realizing he'd forgotten the boy was there.  When he went to stand in front of the two men on the couch, and put his hands on Alfred's shoulders, it seemed the only ones surprised were Alfred and himself.  Arthur saw Francis and the standing boy trade a look that he didn't quite understand.  Then they were kissing again, Alfred and Francis, and Arthur almost had to look away.

Francis tangled a hand in Alfred's hair, yanking his head back just hard enough to hurt. The boy's chest was rising and falling like some sort of mechanical device. Watching, he had a vivid sense memory-- Francis would pull his head head back, just so, leaning down to bite-- and indeed, he lowered his mouth to the boy's neck.  It would be gentle at first, much gentler than you expected-- yes-- and then hard, suddenly, and your eyes would close, and you wouldn't be able to help a gasp-- and yes, there it was, that sound disturbingly similar to the one he'd heard so many times out of his own mouth. Francis looked up and met his eyes, mouth never leaving Alfred's neck-- there was heat there, that he hadn't shown to the boy, and Arthur shivered involuntarily.

“You might as well come sit,” said Francis, finally, pulling away. “You're a distraction, standing there like a stranded puppy.” Alfred didn't appear distracted, and neither did Francis, but Arthur didn't protest. Instead he came, slowly, to sit next to them. The couch was not large, and the farthest away he could get was about a foot-- but Francis was having none of it. He slipped an arm around him, and moved him closer, until he was cradled against his side. Then there was a hand in his hair, just enough tension to tilt his head back a fraction; he met Alfred's eyes, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach in a not-entirely-pleasant way. There was confusion there, in that expression, and wariness, but also-- also want. And the lips were swollen, the eyes glazed, red lines from Francis' nails standing out starkly on his chest... Arthur looked away.

The boy reached out, arm unsteady-- Arthur jumped when the hand ended on his cheek. Alfred's eyes were full of something like wonder. Then he was dragging fingernails down his face, and Arthur's world froze. His eyes closed to slits, his breath coming shallow and fast... “You like it,” said the boy. He couldn't quite seem to get over that.

“You said that already, Al,” said Matthew, reprovingly.

“Oh. Right,” said the boy vaguely, eyes closing again as Francis bit down on his collarbone.

Francis, looking up, shared another look with Matthew that Arthur, again, did not examine too closely. When Matthew left his position behind Alfred and came to stand in front of him, Arthur was surprised, and more than a bit concerned.

“Surely, you can't mean--” And the sweet boy, always so much more cooperative than the other one, was crawling into his lap, running his hands down his chest, grinding delicately against his crotch. Arthur gaped. He didn't even try to fight when the top buttons of her shirt were undone.  
   
Matthew leaned down to whisper in his ear.  “Francis is busy with my brother, and we interrupted you so rudely--”   
   
When on earth had the silly child gotten so bold?  He supposed he really ought to have been paying more attention over the past hundred years or so-- and then his shirt was open, being slid off his shoulders.  His arms were lifted above his head, and-- still too shocked to protest-- he found that his wrists were again bound.  He looked up at him in disbelief.  “Matthew, surely you can’t have--”  
   
The boy shook his head.  “I've never done this before,” he agreed.  “But I learn faster than Al.” Then he was leaning down close enough to kiss-- and biting his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood.  Arthur keened.  “And...” he said, cupping his face with two hands, “that was _really hot_.”  
   
Arthur blinked, dazed.  From next to him, he heard the sharp sound of a slap-- he glanced over, and nearly moaned when he saw Alfred's reddening cheek, the glazed look in the his eyes.  His attention was brought back to the boy-- man-- in his lap when he felt a shock of impact against the side of his own face.  Bemused, aroused, he looked up; the expression on Matthew's face startled him.  It was the one Ivan sometimes wore, equal parts fascination and anticipation.  He laughed, breathlessly.  “Didn't know you had it in you,” he said.  
   
Then Matthew was slipping gentle fingers around his neck.  Arthur froze.  “I have it in me,” he said, quietly.   
   
Where did they even get these ideas.  Something on the television, no doubt.  “Very well,” he said, bringing his hands down to rest between them, still bound.  “If I tap twice, you will stop.”  He wouldn't, of course, not unless Matthew was far more experimental than he expected.  
   
The younger man's grip began to tighten, and Arthur closed his eyes, willing himself to the quiet place he'd been before, where there would be nothing but the pounding in his ears, the ache in his lungs.  He wanted to struggle, but he wouldn't-- not with someone who didn't know he only wanted to be pinned.   
   
Just as the dizziness had begun to set in, Matthew let go, and he took a deep breath.  “You like that, boy?” he asked, voice rough.  
   
Unselfconscious, eyes dark with want, Matthew said, “Yes.”  
   
Good Lord, they did grow up fast.  
   
\---  
   
Light kisses to the neck, teeth.  Another long drag of fingernails on hot skin.  Fingers, light and gentle, on the chest, and a cruel twist for a nipple.  Francis heard the gasp, noted it, eying his subject clinically.  The pupils were dilated, the breathing coming fast, the expression dazed, approaching awestruck. It was a look he'd seen before, on others-- many others, he would go so far as to say.  But he felt little.  A new partner always required concentration, particularly if they wanted to be hurt. Doubly so if they were inexperienced. Later, perhaps he would think back on this moment, and find it arousing. Perhaps not. Francis did not like to be coerced.

Then Alfred wasn't looking at him anymore. Francis turned, following the other man’s gaze: Matthew, perched on Arthur's lap-- hands wrapped around his throat. Arthur's eyes were closed, and Francis recognized the expression that the man wore when he was painfully, painfully aroused. This-- this was an image he would remember.

“Mattie?” whispered Alfred, looking a little lost. Matthew saw the expression on his face, and immediately climbed off the older man, coming to stand behind him.

“It's ok, Al,” he whispered, hugging him from behind.

Alfred turned to hug his brother back-- Francis had never had the same trouble as Arthur with calling their relationship what it was. They'd been children together, reached adulthood together; between them were pain, and love, and blood. They were brothers. He thought of Germany, with something between pain and longing.

He scooted Alfred off his lap, letting Matthew hold him. He turned to look at Arthur. The man's head was back, hands tied, eyes closed. He was breathing slowly, regularly-- too regularly. He was trying very, very hard. Francis met Matthew's eyes, and glanced at the third man; Matthew nodded, turned Al's face into his shoulder, hand on his head. Trusting that he would take care of his more volatile brother, Francis turned to Arthur.

He slid to stand over him, hands on the back of the couch, trapping the other man between his arms. “There is something there, in our Matthew,” he murmured. The man nodded in emphatic consent, without opening his eyes. “And you have been left hanging, dearest,” he continued, lower. Arthur frowned at the endearment, but didn't argue. Francis kissed his cheek, the side of his neck, his chest. His stomach. This was easy, familiar—arousing.  He moved to kneel between the man’s legs. “I shall fix that for you, shan't I?”

He opened one eye. “With the children in the room?”

“Hardly children anymore, Arthur. If they are old enough for what we have done tonight, they are old enough for this.”  
   
Arthur didn't respond, but he didn't move away. Francis undid his pants, kissing the line of skin right above the waist of his pants, biting lightly over his hip bone. There was a soft, soft noise. After so many years-- centuries-- Francis would be a fool if he did not know how to play the man like an instrument.

He glanced at the boys. Alfred's face was still hidden in Matthew's neck, and his breathing had slowed. He looked up at the other boy's face. Matthew met his eyes. Francis saw it now, what Arthur had meant; he was different from his brother, in this.  Without taking his eyes off the boy, he slipped his hands into Arthur's shorts, mouth curling into a smile at the intensity he saw in Matthew's expression.  Matthew's eyes didn't stray from his face, as he leaned down to the Arthur in his mouth.

The man whined-- a sound he would never have allowed himself to make if he hadn't been tied and beaten-- trembling with the effort it took to keep still. Francis steadied him with two hands on his hips, sucking him slowly, steadily. Artistry-- there were days for that. Tonight, what Arthur needed was something quick, simple. And indeed, he could already hear the change in the pattern of his breathing that meant he was close.

Francis let him finish in his mouth, sucking the last of his orgasm gently out of him. Pulling away, he did the man up, and reached out to cup his cheek. Arthur opened an eye to glare at him for taking the liberty, but it was half-hearted at best. Francis just smiled. After so long, he knew the other man's body as well as his own. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been able to intuit without thought what he needed.

The last time—no, that was a lie.  He _could_ remember. But it did not do to dwell on these things.  
   
Kissing Arthur’s hip gently, he came to rest beside him on the couch.  “Well,” he said, and he couldn't analyze his own voice. “You are reassured, I hope.”  Matthew met his eyes, and nodded, a hint of uncertainty starting to creep back into his expression.  Alfred was nearly asleep, but he nodded vaguely into his brother's chest. “Then perhaps we shall all retire. Boys, the spare bedroom?” Matthew nodded, and picked Alfred up easily. Francis shook his head. He forgot so easily how strong they both were.

Arthur stood. “And us?” he said, raising his impressive eyebrows.

“You will come to bed with me, I hope,” said Francis quietly, hoping that the need would be apparent in his voice. It had... it had been difficult, this evening. He met Arthur's eyes, and saw that he understood-- and that for once, he wouldn't argue.

In bed with Arthur, lying close-but-not-touching, France let himself reflect-- things would change, now.   


  



End file.
